


Half Breed

by Elvhennan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvhennan/pseuds/Elvhennan
Summary: I recently learned some of the lore surrounding the Elf Blooded in the Dragon Age universe. So I made this up. Hope y’all enjoy it. Nothing fancy.
Kudos: 3





	Half Breed

Josephine had sent for a tailor. The Inquisitor couldn’t be seen wearing the same tunics day in and day out, not with the number of Orlesians flocking to our court these days. Mythal have mercy, I was already pinching the bridge of my nose thinking about having to keep up with their expectations. Though, Vivienne had apparently put Josie in touch with “the best in Orlais”. And if that was coming from Vivienne’s lips, I suspected they must indeed be talented.

I supposed I could bear it, though it seemed an enormous waste of time considering the demons roaming the countryside. Alas, I stood, half naked, in front of a stand-alone mirror in the center of my quarters being measured. The tailor was a friendly man, and very, very finely dressed himself. 

The doublet he sported was sewn in royal purple fabric, trimmed with silver thread, and buttons carved elegantly from white wood. His billowing trousers were pinstriped in silver satin and black velvet, tucked into knee high boots of dark leather. The sleeves of his tunic were neatly embroidered with twisting vines and Embrium flowers, dark violet against the same satin of his pants. A little garish for my personal style, but it suited him beautifully, and the workmanship was flawless.

“I do not wear anything I did not make myself, Inquisitor,” he said when I told him as much. “I am glad to receive your compliment.”

His name was Baltasar Dujardin, but he did not wear a mask as the rest of his countrymen did, much to my relief. He was middle aged, hair beginning to go grey, with a well maintained goatee and a medium stature. He had little lines at the corner of his eyes that wrinkled up when he smiled. He chatted as he worked with his deft fingers to take all the necessary measurements he needed. Mostly harmless anecdotes about the nobles he’d served in years past meant to make me laugh.

“Perhaps I could embroider some Dalish sigils into the fabric for you?” he suggested as he measured around my bicep.

I watched him in the mirror in front of me. I usually received either no comment at all on my heritage or rather negative ones, the consideration was much appreciated. Though his ability to do justice to them was certainly being scrutinized in my mind.

“Do you have experience with them?” I asked, though not accusatorially.

“It is not often I get to work with them I’ll admit, but I’ve always admired the flourishings and have some sources to reference the proper designs.”

“Well, Vivienne says you are the best Orlais has to offer, so yes, I think I’d like to see what you could do,” I answered him. He seemed to have an attention to detail, I was sure he’d do his best. And if he got it wrong it’s not like the humans at court would notice. I quite liked the idea of displaying my culture proudly around the keep. “Thank you.”

“It’s my honor, really,” he insisted.

I didn’t know what to say. Was he just being sycophantic? He was measuring my chest when we made eye contact in the mirror. He noticed the strange look on my face, something between quizzical and flattered.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “If you want to...?” I don’t know what I expected an Orlesian tailor to say after asking me that, but I did know Orlesians loved their secrets. I suppose I expected gossip.

“I am Elf-Blooded, Inquisitor,” he said with a bit of a giddy smirk on his face.

I just stared into his eyes in the mirror. He was what some of my clan might call a ‘half breed’. I avoided the term altogether. It was no better than ‘knife ear’ in my opinion.

I’d only met one that I’d known of, as it was so easy for them to keep it to themselves and others would be none the wiser. He was a boy in my own clan, a fellow warrior in training when we were children. His mother had become pregnant by a passing merchant, he’d had no chance to hide among the humans. By the time he’d been born, his father was long gone.

He would never receive the Vallaslin, he would never be a First or a Keeper or a Hahren, he had nearly been barred from training with us. The other boys had picked on him and our master had been more harsh with him than he was with us. And he was plenty harsh with us.

“No snide remarks for the Half Breed?” jested Baltasar.

“Only that I think the knife ears would work well with your face,” I smirked at him in our reflections, trading our slurs to one another.

As a child I could never bring myself to be cruel to that boy. Our mothers had been friends and he was a sweet little thing, the two of them hardly deserved to be hated. In fact, the disdain he earned from others simply for existing had only made me a more staunch friend to him. I couldn’t imagine a human taking any more from me than the very features that marked me as an elf. I couldn’t imagine being an elf the elves despised as a human.

“It is good to hear you say so,” he smiled and got back to work. “I had a feeling you were not the type to judge very quickly. You are rather inundated with Shems, it seems.”

I had to laugh at a man who would by any account BE a Shem referring to my advisors as such. And I found I was alight with curiosity.

“Tell me your story then,” I said. “How does an Elf Blooded such as yourself become the best tailor in Orlais? Who were your parents?”

“My mother was Dalish, you see,” he started, bringing my eyebrows together in confusion. “But she was stolen from her clan by slavers. It was a small clan, she used to tell me the stories she could remember. I suppose they were little more than bandits, nomadic you might say.”

“All slaughtered but for the children, and they were all sold to various nobles or Tevinter Magisters,” he went on. It was not an uncommon fate for my people, but it still stung. I’d had nightmares about the exact scenario in my younger days.

“She was purchased by a wealthy man, the Comte Dujardin,” he said as he measured my inseem. “His son was cruel. He took her by force. I was the result.”

I closed my eyes. His mother’s was was a tale too familiar to my pointed ears. Slaves could not refuse. Slaves could not fight back. It was supposed to be fucking illegal in Orlais. I ground my teeth, I’d be sending envoys to Celene about this.

“My grandfather, the Comte, was a decent man, he made certain I was not found out, that I attended my studies and such, but I was little more than a slave myself when in our Villa.”

“Oh do not look so distraught,” he chastised, taking note of my face in the looking glass. “The Dalish are strong people, YOU know that better than anyone. My mother never lost her spirit. She’d always called me Da’len. She collected little Elvhen trinkets when she could find them. She had long, beautiful ears and the other elves adored her for her stories of their shared history.”

Baltasar did have me smiling softly now. Perseverance in the face of adversity. Very Dalish, indeed.

“She taught me to sew. I was good. I would tailor for my Master, who was also my father, though he never truly was one to me,” he remarked. “The rest is history, as they say. My talents were recognized and I passed for a Human. I did well for myself, I inherited a fortune, a home, and a handful of slaves who are now well paid employees.”

At that I grinned fully. He’d used his guise as a Shem to lift up those he viewed as his people.

“Now I am here, working with you, the most powerful elf since Arlathan fell. As I said, it is truly an honor.”

“The honor is mine, Lethallin,” I said. Just as it was with Felicity and Sera, he didn’t have to be Dalish to be Lethallin to me. And there were no other Dalish here to argue with me about it.

“Lethallin?” he did not know the term. Had his mother never taught it to him or had he forgotten?

“One of the People,” I said to him.

“Ha! I appreciate the sentiment but I am hardly...”

“You are. Your mother was Lethallin,” I thought again of the boy in my clan. “She suffered trauma beyond that of anyone still living in the Dales, free of servitude. And you have lifted our kin in a way those in the Dales could never accomplish. A Clan may never accept you, but you are Lethallin to me.”

He looked on the verge of tears. It was something he had to hide from human and Dalish alike. In truth, my reaction could have been much different. He’d taken a risk in sharing his secret. I liked to think that was a bit of Elvhen bravery in his blood.

“Would you like to choose your fabrics?” he asked, the very picture of professionalism.

I chose Earth tones and reds, colors that made my golden eyes stand out. He praised my tastes and described his ideas on styles I might consider.

When he had all the information he needed I invited him to stay for tea. I let him hold Evanura as I’d done with Felicity. He told me of his house staff and the good work they tried to do in the alienates to help our people where they most needed it. It didn’t feel like a petition for aid but it made me realize I should be pushing my council harder to care for their welfare.

“I could always threaten to let the demons win,” I laughed. “Free my people or die?”

He chuckled at that. “I’m not certain they’d listen even then,” he said wistfully.

“Hmm... you’re probably right.”

“Inquisitor,” he sounded hesitant. “If you’d allow me to be so bold; can I ask you for a secret in return?”

“You may be so bold,” I said.

“There are rumors you’re... involved... with a Tevinter. But you seem passionate about the plight of our people, our Lethallin, am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Perfectly,” I answered him. “There is a Tevinter in my circle, yes. Our level of involvement is... uhh, complicated. But he’s a good man. Might hate Tevinter more than I do. Poor Shem had to grow up there.”

Baltasar snickered. “I suppose that is a travesty. I will not question further then, you seem a good judge of character and I, of all people, cannot judge a man on the circumstances of his birth.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Again, the honor is all mine.”

As I was buttoning a tunic back onto myself after he’d gone, I felt myself stand a little taller. I didn’t know which was worse, to visibly be that which some people hated on sight or to know someone would hate me if I weren’t living a lie to appease their sensibilities. Either way, we both had to play our parts for the Shems. He just reminded me that in doing so I had to remember there was a greater end goal to achieve.

I sat down at my desk, I had work to do.


End file.
